Compassion is not empathy. Empathy is feeling what another person feels. It sounds like the higher road, but it carries a cost: absorb enough of someone else's pain and you will eventually burn out and pull away. Compassion is different. It is warmth, concern and the will to act — without drowning. Researchers who trained people in each found the two run on entirely separate circuitry in the brain. One depletes you, while the other steadies you.
Compassion is not softness. During the Second World War, the villagers of Le Chambon in southern France sheltered more than 5,000 Jewish children from German-occupied territory. When people later called them heroes, they brushed it off — things had needed doing, they happened to be there, and helping struck them as entirely ordinary. That is compassion at full strength. Not sentiment. Ordinary people doing a dangerous thing because they had seen something and could not unsee it.
Compassion begins with noticing. Most of us don't fail at caring. We fail at seeing. We are moving too quickly to register that the person in front of us is struggling — and you cannot respond to something you never saw.
You also have to be able to receive it. Sixteen hundred kilometres into a world-record ski attempt, in the dark and in real pain, Dave didn't find out how strong he was. He found out how weak he was, and how much he needed the people around him. His real source of strength turned out to be love, not determination. People who can't accept compassion rarely manage to keep giving it.
That's what compassion is — not a feeling you have about suffering, but what you do once you've seen it.